“Sure.”
“I’ll put the order in right now,” Caleb promised.
“Thanks. Hey, does the pub still do a trivia contest on Tuesday nights?” She didn’t know why that would be the one change the restaurant would make, but she hoped they hadn’t. The noise and chaos of trivia night would be a welcome cover for their conversation with Marielle.
Caleb nodded. “Yep. They’ll start up as soon as happy hour’s over.”
As the waiter hurried away to clear the dishes from another table, she raised her glass and took a sip of water.
“So, who is this friend we’re meeting, and how can she help us?”
She took another drink then answered. “Marielle’s a targeter with the Directorate of Digital Innovation.”
He looked at her blankly. “A who with the what?”
She smiled. “She’s a data geek—of sorts. The DDI focuses on, well, digital and cyberspace targets.”
“So she’s an analyst.”
Olivia scrunched up her nose. “You and I would say yes. But she’d say no. And so would the actual data analysts at the Agency. The DDI describes the targeters as ‘hunters,’ Elle says it’s more like putting together a puzzle.”
“How did an operative and a data geek ever cross paths?” Trent asked.
She laughed. “Here. In the ladies’ room. We were in the same training class—different programs, of course. And we were the only two women who showed up for an informal trivia night outing. She complimented the color of my lipstick and—”
“The rest was history? Sounds like the setup for a buddy film.”
She tossed back her head and laughed a real, genuine laugh. It was the first light moment she’d felt since she’d executed the reverse bootleg turn. “It sort of was. We teamed up for the trivia competition and won the grand prize—a year’s worth of free drinks.”
“No wonder the hostess recognized you.”
She laughed again, but this one had a bittersweet edge. “We didn’t use the tab much. I got my field assignment about two months later. And this is only the third time I’ve been back to the States.”
His warm eyes probed hers. “That must be hard.”
Her chest tightened, and she dropped her gaze to the table. “It’s part of the job. I’m sure you know all about it.”
He covered her hand with his large palm. He traced a circle on the back of her hand with his thumb, and her skin heated. “I do. That’s why I know it’s hard.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and glanced up at him but was saved from answering by Caleb’s arrival. He placed a frosted beer mug in front of each of them.
“I put a fresh pot of coffee on,” Caleb promised Olivia with a wink. “And your fries will be right up.”
The moment between Olivia and Trent—whatever it had been—had passed. He withdrew his hand and raised his mug. “To friends we can count on.”
“I’ll drink to that.” She clinked her glass against his and sipped the cold beer. “So, Leilah Khan must be a pretty good friend. She lent you a Porsche, no questions asked?”
He took a long pull of beer before answering. “She is. I met her through her brother. Omar’s a DEA agent. He’s a total pro. But, yeah, Leilah’s a firecracker. She’s feisty and fierce. It can’t be easy being a female, Muslim, professional race car driver, but she makes it look like it is.”
A frisson of something that felt an awful lot like jealousy shot through Olivia. You’re ridiculous, she told herself. She made an indistinct hmm sound and focused on her drink. After a moment, she said, “It was obviously kind of her to lend us the car. But … it’s a little flashy.”
“I know. It’s a temporary measure. We need to pick up some burner cell phones and a new ride after your friend tells us exactly what we’re up against.”
As she was about to respond, movement at the front of the pub caught her eye. The brunette hostess was pointing toward their booth. Two men stared directly at Olivia and Trent. Even from this distance, their demeanor, posture, and appearance screamed ‘bad news.’
“Incoming,” she said without taking her eyes of the pair of men.
Trent squeezed her hand. “I see ’em. Are you carrying?”
“No,” she said miserably. “My gun’s locked up on Mateo’s plane. I didn’t want to bring it to my grandmother’s rehab center. I’m supposed to be a pampered society wife, remember? It would raise too many questions.” She never imagined she’d need it.
His jaw clenched. “It’s okay. I am.”
Of course he was. She tracked the men with her eyes as they wound their way through the bar, headed their way. They were both about six feet tall. Dark, short hair. Fitted suits. One black and silver striped tie, one maroon and gray.
Trent narrowed his eyes. “The guy on the left is wearing a shoulder holster, and his friend has a hip holster on his right side.”
Olivia’s mouth went dry at the confirmation of what she’d suspected. She ignored the glass of Harp and sipped her water, but her throat remained a desert. “We should go. This could get messy.”
“You think they’re FBI?”
“No.”
“CIA?”
“No. They’re CNI.”
“CNI? You sure? They’re pretty far from home.”
The Centro Nacional de Inteligencia, or CNI, was the Mexican equivalent of the CIA. She continued to study the approaching men from under her eyelashes.
“I’m sure. You know how sometimes you can tell someone’s European or a Russian national without ever speaking to them, just by the cut of their clothes or their haircut—some small detail that doesn’t even fully register?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, these guys are CNI. I can tell.”
“Okay. What’s the play?”
“Do you have cash?”
“Sure.”
“Leave a twenty for Caleb and slip out through the kitchen. I need to powder my nose. I’ll meet you behind the building in thirty seconds.”
“I don’t think we should split up,” he protested.
“I need to leave a message for Elle. We don’t have time to argue. Go.”
She slid out of the booth and strode past the kitchen door to the ladies’ room before he had time to argue. When she pushed open the door with her hip, she was already digging in her bag for her pricey poppy-hued lipstick. She scrawled twelve digits on the mirror and wheeled around. She was out the door before it had swung completely closed.
She raced to the kitchen, snagging a curved fish knife from the magnetic strip hanging over the prep station and slipped it inside her shirt sleeve, point down. She tugged her cuff down over the wrist to conceal the knife. Her motions were smooth, efficient, and fast. She smiled at a confused-looking dishwasher, then burst through the metal doors that led to the back lot.
11
By unspoken agreement, Trent and Olivia hustled through the lot and out to the main street. With luck, the CNI agents would stick to the alley behind the pub for at least a while before they realized their prey wasn’t back there. Not that Trent was much for relying on luck. He preferred to rely on his team. His team, led by Jake, was probably busy cursing him up and down at the moment. So luck would have to do.
He walked at a rapid clip, but she matched his pace easily. His adrenaline buzz, which had ramped up back in the restaurant, surged higher. His hearing sharpened and his vision narrowed, blocking out everything but the threat stalking them. He couldn’t deny it—despite the danger, or perhaps because of it—being in action again made him feel alive.
As they approached the brick alleyway that led to the bread factory and their car, Olivia touched his elbow and inclined her head. “Ready?”
“Go.”
They ducked into the alley and came face to face with one of the CNI agents—the one with the silver and black necktie. Trent’s heart thudded. The Mexicans must’ve split up. He turned back to the street. The man’s partner stood at the mouth of the alley, blocking th
e narrow passageway. They were trapped. Beside him, Olivia swore softly under her breath.
He considered drawing his weapon, but instead decided to follow Jake’s favorite rule: Never be the first asshole. Let the other guy show his true colors first. Then respond accordingly.
He didn’t have long to wait. Both men pulled out their handguns. The man who’d been lying-in-wait gestured with the weapon. “Mrs. Flores. I’m going to need you to come with us.” He spoke in barely accented English.
Olivia spat on the ground. “It’s Santos. Ms. Santos.”
Trent nearly laughed when he saw her produce a small kitchen knife from her sleeve. She brandished it.
“What the—?” the assailant began.
Olivia laid into him in rapid-fire Spanish. Trent’s Spanish was decent, but she was speaking so quickly and so angrily that he couldn’t catch the nuances. He rotated so that they were standing back to back and leveled his semi-automatic at the second guy.
“I’d stay there,” he advised the man.
“You don’t know what you’re mixed up in,” the agent informed him. “You should walk away.”
On some rational level, Trent recognized that as solid advice. But it was advice he’d never take.
“Thanks for your concern.” He smirked, and the agent’s forehead furrowed, not sure what to make of Trent.
Out of the corner of his eye, Trent clocked Olivia brandishing the knife through the air in what could be mistaken for a wild, erratic pattern. But Trent recognized the skill with which she wielded the weapon. If either of the would-be attackers got within her wingspan, they’d regret it. The man who’d spoken to her was mesmerized by the flashing blade. The guy at the other end of Trent’s weapon was frozen in place.
Trent inched back and pressed the back of his shoulder into Olivia’s shoulder for a second. It wasn’t much of a signal, but he hoped she’d catch it.
“We seem to be at an impasse,” he observed mildly.
Silver and black necktie cocked his head and eyed Trent. “Not exactly.”
In the split second that the man’s attention was diverted, Olivia pounced. She pressed the blade against his exposed throat with her right hand and chopped the gun out of his grip with her left. It clattered to the bricks underfoot.
Trent turned his attention to the other guy. He could read in the man’s brown eyes that he didn’t want to shoot. Neither did Trent. Firing a gun in the middle of some quaint small town’s business district—especially one that sat in the shadow of CIA Headquarters—wasn’t a great idea. But, he’d do it if he had to. And he knew the CNI agent would, too.
Show him you’re willing.
He thumbed off the M&P’s safety with a click. The guy’s eyes widened. His partner started to shout but Trent caught a blur of motion out of his peripheral vision as Olivia brought the elbow of her free arm down on his collarbone with a sickening crack. The shouted warning morphed into an indistinct howl.
Trent steadied the barrel of the gun, aiming squarely at the man’s center mass. “Place it on the ground. Gently. I’m only asking once.”
Maroon and gray necktie didn’t hesitate. He lowered into a crouch and rested his weapon on the ground without ever moving his gaze from Trent’s face.
“Good. Stand up and walk toward me.” If this were a movie, he’d have told the guy to kick the gun toward him. But it wasn’t a movie, and he wasn’t interested in having his kneecap blown out by a misfire.
The man raised his hands above his head and inched forward. Trent smirked. Raised hands, a trained agent. One quick movement, and Trent would have a broken nose and no gun.
“Nice try. I didn’t tell you to put your hands in the air. Lower them.”
The man’s mouth twisted into a bow of sour defeat as he complied. Olivia hustled up beside Trent, dangling a set of handcuffs.
“Where’d you get those?”
She jerked her head back. “My friend doesn’t need them. He’s having a little rest.”
“You knocked him out?”
“Naw. I cut off his oxygen supply. Pressure on the carotid artery. He’s not going to stay out forever, so how ‘bout we move this along?”
He gestured with the gun. “Do the honors.”
He trained the weapon on the remaining agent while Olivia wrenched his arms behind his back and secured the metal cuffs into place. Once he was immobilized, she removed his necktie and gagged him with it.
“Now what?”
Trent scanned the alleyway. “Leave them behind that dumpster for trash pickup?”
She grinned and hauled the guy to the rusty blue container that sat along a brick wall. She shoved him to the ground and ordered him to scoot behind the dumpster while Trent dragged his partner bumpily across the bricks. He noted that Olivia had also gagged her guy with his necktie. A nice touch.
They arranged the CNI agents in the shadow of the trash bin. Trent tried not to gag at the fetid stench of rotting food and stale beer that wafted out of the dumpster. Olivia crouched and relieved them of their wallets and keys while Trent retrieved their guns from the center of the alley.
She was hissing a warning to the men in Spanish when the familiar whoop of a squad car filled the air, and red and blue lights lit up the alley. Trent turned to see a black and white patrol car nosing its way into the alley. He dropped the weapons in his pockets, hoping like hell the safeties were engaged, and grabbed Olivia.
“What the—?”
He pushed her against the rough brick wall and crushed her mouth with his lips. She twisted, resisting, until either the lights or the siren registered and she realized what was happening. She relaxed in his arms. No, she just didn’t relax. She leaned into him. Her mouth, hot and hungry, pressed forward to meet his lips, searching. She arched her back, and a small moan escaped her mouth.
Some instinctive, animalistic piece of him took over. His hips ground into hers, and his tongue darted forward between her parted lips to explore her warm, wet mouth. Her arms snaked up over his shoulders and her fingers raked through his hair. Heat flooded his body. His heart thudded in his chest. The alley receded, and there was nothing but her. Her blue eyes locked on his, full of passion and desire. Her lithe body pressed against him. Her fingers tugging on hair, a heady mix of pleasure and pain. He buried his face in her neck, nipping at the hot, soft skin. All thought vanished, all that was left was need. Need and—
“Hey, lovebirds, let’s move it along.” The amplified voice crackled through the police car’s public address system. A moment later, a car door slammed and heavy boots thudded to the ground.
Trent pulled back as if he’d been doused with ice water. Olivia’s face reddened, and she grimaced as she released his hair and pushed against his chest. She peered out at the patrolman from under Trent’s arm.
“Sorry, officer,” she called in a raw, trembling voice.
Beside her, out of view of the police officer, the conscious CNI agent tried to yell for help, a muffled shout through the gag. Trent casually brought his foot down on the man’s wrist and ground his heel against the delicate bone. The shouting stopped.
“That’s okay,” the officer told her, his voice full of amusement. “But aren’t you two a bit old to be necking in an alley?”
Trent managed a shaky laugh. “You’re right, sir. We’ll be on our way.”
The cop nodded and started to get back into the car as Trent grabbed Olivia’s hand and pulled her in the opposite direction, toward the other end of the alley. As they walked, he tugged her close and wrapped his arm around her narrow waist. She stiffened.
“He’s watching. Come on,” he whispered against her silky hair.
She relaxed into his side. Her hand slipped into his back pocket and she rested her head against his shoulder as they walked.
Her taut body felt alien. The opposite of Carla’s curves and muscle. But the memory of the heat of her mouth and her slippery, acrobatic tongue dancing against his coursed through him. A small growl tore free from his
throat.
“You okay?” she asked in a low, ragged voice.
He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded.
Behind them, the sound of a car door slamming shut echoed off the brick walls. An engine started as the patrol car reversed out of the alley and shot down the street.
When the thrum of the engine faded, Olivia yanked her hand out of his pocket and pulled away. She shook his arm from her waist, and he tried to ignore the empty chill that washed over him.
12
Olivia buckled her seatbelt with shaking hands and stared out the passenger side window. Hot tears pricked at her eyes, and she blinked them back.
She. Would. Not. Cry.
She may be a trembling, heaving mess, but she absolutely was not going to shed her tears in front of Trent.
Trent eyed her closely. “Are you all right? That goon didn’t hurt you did he?”
She laughed despite herself. “No. I’m not hurt.” She forced herself to turn and meet his gaze. “I’m mortified.”
He tented his eyebrows. “Mortified?”
She couldn’t believe he was going to make her say it.
“At that … that … display in the alley.”
Comprehension lit his eyes. “Olivia, come on. That was a cover. A good one, I’ll add. But, don’t worry, it didn’t mean anything.” He smiled reassuringly.
Her stomach dropped to her knees. That was the problem. It did mean something. Her body had never responded to a man the way it had to Trent. The touch of his fingertips had electrified her. His mouth crushing hers had heated her from the inside out. And his tongue … she pressed her hand against her mouth, still raw from his kisses, to stifle a moan. She couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to explore every inch of his muscled body.
You’re married.
The voice in her head lashed out at her, scornful and shocked. She closed her eyes and breathed through her nose for a moment. She had to pull it together. She swallowed hard and opened her eyes. He was still looking at her. She pasted on a smile of her own.
Burned (Shenandoah Shadows Novella Book 1) Page 7
